


Work of Art

by tck489



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Crack, Errant Comment Fic, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:22:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tck489/pseuds/tck489
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes paints a wedding gift for Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the errant comment "Beautiful work and very expressive. : )" on shkinkmeme

During the course of Watson's courting of, and engagement to, Mary, the socially awkward Holmes had dug himself quite a hole. He liked Mary, he truly did, but his feelings for Watson far surpassed anything he'd ever felt. He wanted to please Watson so that Mary couldn't replace him completely -- to remind Watson that Holmes too cared for him, even if he could never be a wife. So Holmes would accept Watson's invitations to dinner and arrive promptly, looking more presentable than he had in his entire life. Despite his intentions, his anxiety over losing Watson manifested as rude dislike for Mary. Even in trying to acquiesce to Mary's desires, jealousy reared its head and he'd offended her, had wine thrown in his face and all over Watson's finest waistcoat.  
  
He'd provided Watson with an engagement ring, but that didn't express his satisfaction with Watson's choice for an essential mate. Surely the ring was seen only as an apology for having caused Watson to lose the one he'd purchased. Once Watson found out the origin of the gem, the gift wouldn't be a token of anything and Holmes would certainly get a tongue lashing for involving the good doctor and his honest wife in a jewel heist.  
  
No, Holmes had to make another gesture to keep a place in his dear doctor's heart and life.  
  
He had an idea that was either pure genius or entirely stupid, but he was running out of time. Watson and Mary had already wed and were fast settling into their life of domestic bliss without him.  
  
Holmes sent off a wire to Mrs. Watson _née_ Morstan requesting her to call for tea the next day where he would ask for her cooperation in the plan.

* * *

 

The meeting for tea had been a success. Mary, surprisingly had agreed immediately to take part in Holmes's harebrained plan.  
  
A few long days later Holmes found himself sitting in his room above the Punchbowl. He'd acquired all the supplies they would need and spread them out before him. He tensed as he heard the floor boards creak on the rickety stairs outside his room and stood to open the door for his guest.  
  
"Mrs. Watson, thank you so much for coming. I'm dreadfully sorry that a woman of your honour has to step foot in an establishment like this, but you understand that this a very delicate matter. _Nude portraiture_ of a colleague's wife requires the utmost secrecy..."  
  
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," Mary nodded in understanding as she entered the small room. "This has added some needed adventure to my otherwise mundane day."  
  
Holmes helped her to remove her overcoat and handed her his housecoat. "If you'll..." he gestured with his hand, "we'll begin immediately and I'll have you returned home before Watson is done with his patients."  
  
Holmes turned to face the wall, fidgeting trying to focus on inspecting the chipping paint on the walls as Mary disrobed behind him.  
  
"Ready," Mary spoke after what seemed like an hour.  
  
Holmes turned back around and crookedly smiled at Mary, standing there perfectly calm. He pulled a stool into the middle of the room and placed his hands on the seat. "Have a seat here and we'll begin."  
  
Mary sat in the offered stool and Holmes went to attend to the equipment he'd readied. He grabbed a paintbrush and dabbed it in a pot of paint experimentally. When he looked up, Mary had shed the housecoat and was sitting there nude as a newborn babe.  
  
Holmes, blushed, "Right," he said, "here we go." He ducked his head behind the giant easel he'd assembled and tried to steady himself. His hand quaked as he tried to apply a broad stroke down the middle of his canvas. He couldn't contain a frustrated sigh.  
  
"Really, Mr. Holmes. You're more nervous than I. This is all rather fun. I've always fantasized about posing as a model"  
  
Mary's calming words convinced Holmes to meet her eyes. Her warm smile encouraging him to continue. "John will love it, Mr. Holmes. This is an excellent idea."  
  
Holmes gripped his paintbrush with new found certainty and began to outline the curves of Mary's childbearing hips.  
  
Several hours later, Holmes realized that he hadn't taken to painting as easily as he thought he would. At Mary's shivering, Holmes was prompted to dismiss her for the day, but asked her to return at the same time tomorrow, and perhaps every day left in the week if it was needed.  
  
Soon, their sessions lost all sense of awkwardness and Holmes spoke with Mary in a manner he only ever did with Watson. Though his painting skills were not increasing at the same exponential rate as their conversation, Holmes obsessed over the project. He'd stay up late in the evening trying to mix the perfect shades of pink that would capture the spectrum of colour distinguishing Mary's areolae from her nipples.  
  
After a week and a half of posing nude for Holmes, though, Mary was growing tired of the detective's perfectionism. And, without having seen the painting, assured him that it must be complete after all this time. She donned her clothing and told Holmes to bring the completed artwork by their home the next night.

* * *

 

Painting was not one of the areas Holmes displayed exceptional talent in. So he had his regrets as he stood in the parlour room of the Watson residence, ready to unveil the gift to Watson and let his subject see the portrait for the first time. Even though during their painting sessions Mary and Holmes had developed quite a bond, would she think his painting tasteless? That his untalented hand had purposely disfigured her beauty? Holmes looked quickly around the room, eying the half drank glasses sitting on a nearby table. He reached for them and downed the remainder of all three glasses in succession. With Mary out of potential ammo, his nerves calmed slightly and he prepared to life the covering. It was now or never...  
  
"Voilà!" and with a quick flick of his wrist, Holmes stood in front of his painting feeling as naked as Mary was depicted on the canvas.  
  
His nervous small smile was not matched by his audience. Mary had turned toward her husband, looking as expectantly as Holmes for a response from him. Watson just looked dazed, as if he'd just been thumped on the back of the head.  
  
Holmes spoke quickly trying to recover from the disaster. This most definitely had not gone according to plan.  
  
"I'm terribly sorry old boy," he said hurriedly trying to place the sheet back over the artwork. "My hand was not made for the visual arts. I meant no offense to you and your beloved. Here, let me dispose of this immediately." Holmes began to lift the painting down from the easel and took the frame under his arm, planning a fast escape. He'd have to cut his losses and begin a new. This was the last straw -- Watson would never forgive him for this, let alone ever accept his sincere congratulations on his marriage.  
  
"Wait, Holmes, wait!" Watson shouted.  
  
Holmes stopped in his tracks, but could not turn to face his former best and only friend.  
  
"This is a beautiful work," said Watson, "and very expressive."  
  
At Watson's words, Holmes found the courage to turn back. There was no look of horror on Watson's face, no blank look of shock, but there was a shining smile.  
  
"You mean - you- I- you actually _like_ it?" Holmes stammered.  
  
"Of course, you fool. You've somehow managed to capture the beauty of Mary as I see her through my eyes. My only concern is how you managed to acquire the same perspective as myself..."  
  
Mary placed a calming hand on Watson's arm. "I assure you, John, Mr. Holmes acted a perfect gentleman. He cares for me in an entirely different way than you do," and, smiling knowingly, Mary added to herself under her breath "and entirely different from how he cares _about you_."  
  
"The only matter that remains is where to hang Mr. Holmes's masterpiece..." Mary said, tapping a finger on her chin.  
  
"The bedroom!" Watson blurted out and quickly reddened. Speaking again in a conversational tone, "I mean to say, the bedroom, the perfect private room for us to observe the painting."  
  
Watson turned to Holmes and grasped his hand in a firm handshake. "Thank you for this, Holmes. You are welcome to come over and enjoy the fruits of your labour whenever you like..."


End file.
